


for reasons wretched and divine

by casfallsinlove



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Angel Castiel, M/M, Prince Dean, but there is dean and castiel skinny dipping in a lake, it's a very loose merlin au, there's no dragon, very very loose
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-07-15 21:40:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7239475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casfallsinlove/pseuds/casfallsinlove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Freedom has been granted to Castiel--a curious, disobedient, no-good angel--in the guise of punishment and he is <i>basking</i> in it. Despite being forced to live on the streets in a world that he was brought up to resent and fear, Castiel is perfectly content. What he doesn't expect is to meet the Dean Winchester, the crown prince, whose father is the very reason angels are hunted in the first place--much less become his roommate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. part one

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I'm warning you now that this is definitely a work-in-progress. I have the next couple of chapters written and a thorough plan for the entire fic but I have no idea when I'll be able to update around work and traveling this summer. I will try my best not to leave you hanging for too long though. 
> 
> I've tagged this urban fantasy because I couldn't think what else to call it. There are touches of medieval elements in there but it's mostly a modern setting. I was basically indecisive and decided to merge the two, and in doing so have created a world that does not fit anywhere in today's society; hence the fantasy tag.
> 
> Inspiration was definitely taken from Merlin, but it is by no means a strict Merlin AU.

 

Castiel used to have a home. It was called the Garrison and was a large, concrete structure, very basic, with many rooms meant for prayer and seeking revelation. The smallest room was Castiel’s private space and in it was a cot for resting, a chair, a desk and a bookcase.

Castiel doesn’t have a home anymore. Now he has a bag.

It’s a nice bag. Canvas, deep navy blue, plenty roomy for his few possessions. Not quite the same as having a private space, of course, but then again Castiel does have this entire alley all to himself most of the time which is sort of the same thing.

He probably should be more sad that he’s technically homeless, but he just can’t bring himself to be. He certainly doesn’t miss his home or anyone in it (and why should he, he reminds himself, _they_ were the ones who threw him out). Freedom has been granted to him under the guise of punishment and he is _basking_ in it. The fresh air, the bustling Main Street just a stone’s throw away, the sleek black cat who twines around his ankles in the hopes of getting her belly scratched. These are all good things.

Sure, it would be nice to have somewhere comfortable to rest rather than the dirty ground. And okay, having to fend off rats during the night is a little more ‘communing with nature’ than Castiel would have liked. And yes, he’s starting to look like a crazy, filthy hobo because he’s afraid to use what’s left of his powers. Then there are the very long days with nothing to do, having to dart around the corner and hide every time someone from the restaurant comes to dump their trash at the end of the alley, and the even longer nights listening to the drunken singing of the humans heading home from the bar, Hunters and commoners alike.

But apart from those things, he’s rather enjoying his castigation. He tells himself stories to pass the time, old ones passed down from generations of angels. Ones his parents would tell him as a child before they died in the war. Tales of monsters, powerless and wingless but twice as dangerous as any angel. Monsters who lay traps and set snares to hook angels up by their wings, then cooked and ate them until their bones were licked clean. When Castiel was a boy, he’d been afraid of humans under the bed and would have nightmares about them peering through the dark gaps in the closet to watch as he meditated until morning.

Now, Castiel isn’t so sure. Of course he’s never met a human, but the few that he’s caught glimpses of have been rather idiotic. One full-grown man fell over into the road as he left the bar a few nights ago and was nearly hit by a passing car. That doesn’t seem like the behavior of something to be feared to Castiel.

But the fables amuse him regardless. In his bag he keeps a small notebook and sometimes, if he has story ideas of his own, he takes his pencil and jots them down. In another life, one where Castiel isn’t homeless and isn’t an angel designed for nothing but worship, he might have liked to be a writer.

A tussle at the end of the alley makes him look up and when he sees two thugs shoving another man up against the wall, Castiel clutches his bag closer and shrinks back into the shadows as best he can. It’s too late to run, but hopefully if he makes himself look as small as possible they won’t notice him. Castiel has a lot of experience at making himself look small.

The thugs appear to be trying to steal from the third man. This isn’t uncommon, the far end of Castiel’s alley is often used for illicit activities, much to his annoyance. Though this particular altercation does seem more violent than most. The thieves certainly aren’t afraid to use their alarmingly meaty fists, and it doesn’t help that the man they’re stealing from seems intent on winding them up.

“Clearly you two chuckleheads have no idea who I am,” he’s saying, voice a lot more amused than someone getting mugged is surely allowed to be. Humans are so peculiar.

“Clothes like these,” Thug 1 plucks at the man’s shirt, “mean you’re rich, and that’s all we really care about. Now give us your money.”

The man sighs, like this is such a great hardship for him, and Castiel wonders if he’s used to this sort of treatment. “Don’t make me fight you, fellas.”

This causes the thugs to roar with laughter and Castiel can see where they’re coming from. The man may be tall and young and well-built, if a little bandy-legged, but Thugs 1 and 2 must weigh double what he does each. They’re burly and thickset and dense.

The man fights them anyway.

Castiel shakes his head, waiting for what he is sure will be this stranger’s untimely demise, but he fights back quite well. Remarkably well, actually. He blocks their blows and gets a few gut-punches in and Castiel’s really starting to root for him when Thug 2 manages to catch the man on the back of the skull with a plank of wood and he goes down like a sack of potatoes.

This isn’t good. The man isn’t responding and the thugs are victoriously rifling through his pockets now, searching for money presumably. Castiel furiously battles a moral crisis inside his head then, foolishly and knowing he’ll regret it, gets to his feet.

“Leave him alone.”

The thugs snort but don’t pay him any attention which, quite frankly, is rather rude. They should be cowering in their boots. Castiel is a warrior and has been trained in all kinds of martial arts from a young age. To underestimate him is to _die_.

Regrettably, Castiel is also something of a pacifist these days.

“I said, _leave him_.”

The man stirs, blinking stupidly up at Castiel, and the thugs finally straighten up. They glare at him, eyes narrow slits in their round faces. In Thug 2’s hands are the man’s possessions. Some bills, something that looks like a knife, and, bizarrely, a candy bar.

Castiel walks forward a few steps and gathers all the mightiness he can considering his scruffy clothes and unkempt appearance. “I suggest you put those down and run.”

“Oh yeah?” Thug 1 laughs, “Whatcha gonna do, stare us to death?”

With a casual flick of his fingers, Castiel throws him into the wall. The thief grunts on impact and struggles desperately against the invisible force. Thug 2 doesn’t look so smug anymore either.

“I repeat,” Castiel growls, “ _leave_.”

“What the fuck ever,” Thug 2 huffs, dropping the man’s things into a messy pile on the ground. Castiel releases Thug 1 and lets him crumple. The thief scrambles to his feet and shoots a wide-eyed, undeniably frightened look at Castiel. Yes, this is how things should be.

“We’ll get you next time, you son of a bitch,” Thug 2 hisses at the man, who laughs weakly, “Your knight in shining armor over there can’t protect you forever.” He aims one last kick into the man’s solar plexus and then they both flee. Castiel waits until they’ve disappeared from view back into Main Street, then uses his powers to break both their left ankles. Just for good measure. He smiles when he hears the distant yells of pain.

Okay, so maybe he’s not as much of a pacifist as he thought he was.

But the man is groaning at Castiel’s ankles, which draws his attention away from a possible existential crisis over his newfound sadism, and he crouches down to ask, “Are you okay?”

“Peachy,” the man grumbles, pushing to his feet. Then, “What the hell _are_ you?”

Castiel pauses, frozen. He considers making a run for it, but this is _his_ alley goddammit and he’s also fairly certain that this man is now in his debt and therefore won’t possibly kill him, right?

“I’m an angel but I’d really rather you didn’t eat me because I can assure you that I’m not very nutritious at all, most of my body mass is muscle rather than fat, in fact if you want I know someone, Uriel, who would be much better suited to—”

The man laughs and Castiel finds himself traitorously thinking that it’s really a very nice sound. “Chill out, man, I’m not gonna _eat_ you.”

“Oh.” That’s surprising.

“So you’re an angel, huh? Like the winged kind?”

“What other kind is there?”

“I dunno, dude, you tell me.”

Castiel squints at him, because this conversation is making less and less sense with every word. “You are very confusing.”

A smirk tugs at the man’s mouth and he sticks out his hand. “Dean Winchester.”

Winchester. As in the Kingdom of Winchester. As in the palace on the hill overlooking the town _belongs_ to this man. That must have been what he meant when he challenged the thieves. Castiel has just exposed his true identity to the _ruler of the kingdom_.

He bows, deeply and a little awkwardly, feels his shirt ride up his back as he dips and all the blood rush to his head. It is ungraceful, but hopefully not cause for Dean to punish him. He’s never been taught how to bow. Kneel in prayer, but not bow.

“Hey, there’s no need for that,” Dean tells him, looking embarrassed.

Proceeding with caution is a necessity here, Castiel knows. One wrong word and he could definitely be dead. “Are you the King, sire?”

“Nope, just prince and heir to the throne. You gonna tell me your name, angel?”

He says _angel_ like a flirtation. It makes Castiel cough. “Castiel.”

Dean looks around, eyes focusing on Castiel’s bag and his appearance. Castiel fights the strange urge to flatten down his hair.

“You livin’ on the streets, Castiel?”

“Street, singular. This alley, to be precise.”

It’s making him uneasy, not knowing where this conversation is going, or where he stands. It doesn’t appear as if Dean is about to attack him or have him arrested, but this is Castiel’s first ever interaction with a human so he can’t be sure of anything regarding Dean’s intentions.

Dean scuffs at the ground with the toe of his fine leather boots, then asks, “Why?”

Castiel frowns at him. “I don’t think that’s any of your business,” it comes out harsher than he intended so he hastily tacks on a semi-deferential, “my Lord.”

Visibly amused, Dean says, “Yeah, okay, you can drop the whole respectful thing, it doesn’t suit you. ‘Sides, I’m not a fan of titles.”

“Oh,” Castiel says again, for lack of anything else. He wasn’t wrong when he said Dean was confusing. Are all humans this contradictory?

There’s a beat of awkwardness, then Dean starts to pick up his belongings that the thugs left scattered around their feet. “So, uh, I should get going. Thanks for, y’know, all that. I won’t tell anyone you’re here, I swear.”

“I appreciate that,” Castiel retreats back into his shadows again, settling down against the wall and tucking his bag under his knees. He’s expecting this conversation to be over, for Dean to be on his way, but all of a sudden there’s a pair of bowed legs right in front of him.

“Here, take this.” He’s holding out his money to Castiel. “Get yourself some food or something.”

This is an unprecedented act of kindness that throws Castiel, who still has faint worries that Dean is about to run him through with a sword. “Oh, thank you, but that’s not necessary. This body doesn’t require nourishment yet.”

“You sure?”

“Of course.”

Dean bites his lip. Castiel can practically see his mind working and waits patiently. Sure enough, twenty seconds later, he blurts, “How about a comfortable bed?”

Sometimes, when Castiel is meditating at night amongst the rats, he fantasizes about mattresses and blankets and pillows. But not once did he think he’d receive an offer like that from a prince, of all things. “What?”

“That wasn’t--I mean, I’m not trying to--” Dean sucks in a breath through his teeth, clearly embarrassed. “I can give you a job. Manservant to the First Prince, to me. The pay is shit, but you’d have somewhere warm and dry to live at the palace.”

Dean starts looking inexplicably hopeful and it sets Castiel’s teeth on edge.

“I just left a life of servitude, why would I want to enter another one?”

Backtracking, Dean says, “Oh no, no, that would just be a front. I mean, you might have to bring me a few things every now and then but I swear, you’re free to go whenever and wherever you want. I’ve never used a servant before so I wouldn’t care what you do as long you can keep up the act. There’s no way my dad can know there’s an angel in the kingdom.”

Castiel stands again, thrown off-balance by this strange turn of events and wanting to be able to look Dean in the eye. This would be an ideal temporary solution until Castiel can figure out what he wants to do next, but if it is all an elaborate trick to lure him closer to the gallows, he needs to know now. “May I read your mind? Very briefly, just to perceive your true intentions?”

Straight away Dean recoils from the two fingers Castiel extends, but then seems to reconsider, warily nods and squeezes his eyes shut tight. Which is technically unnecessary, but Castiel doesn’t tell him so. Instead he just lightly touches the tips of his fingers to Dean’s forehead.

Dean has been nothing but courteous so Castiel stays true to his word and simply skims the surface of Dean’s mind, but that is more than enough. He sees kindness, gentleness hidden under machismo and humor. He sees gratitude and an offer of friendship directed at Castiel himself, a flicker of mingled hope and apprehension that his offer will be accepted. He sees a good man afraid of failure—and then he pulls back.

“Whoa,” Dean mumbles, grabbing onto Castiel’s arm as he sways slightly. “That was freaky. Let’s not do that again.”

Never, never without his permission, Castiel wants to say. But instead what comes out is, “Why do you care? You don’t even know me. I’m an angel, your kind _hunts_ me.”

“You’re sorta wrong about that actually,” Dean explains, “But I don’t care what you are. All I know is that you’re in a tight spot and you could do with a hand. I’m giving you a hand.” Castiel glances down at Dean’s callused fingers uncertainly. “Not literally, you weirdo. Just… let me help you out like you helped me out, huh?”

And for some reason unknown to man, God, or a particularly disheveled angel, Castiel bizarrely finds himself saying, “Okay.”

 

+

 

The Kingdom of Winchester is large and sprawling, grassy plains ringed by forest and beyond that, somewhere, the coast. Though the population is small, the power the King holds over the entire state is nothing short of impressive. Castiel knows this from his history lessons about the War, though his tutors would call King Winchester’s consolidation of power and dissolution of the Treaty barbaric, never impressive.

In the center of town is Main Street, dotted with various stores and businesses. Branching off on either side of Main Street is a network of streets built to house the people, blocks and blocks of neat little two-story buildings with shabby front yards and paint-peeling doors.

Castiel hefts his bag further up his shoulder as he and Dean walk through this area, avoiding the busy parts because both are keen to stay away from any unwanted attention, and Castiel listens carefully to everything Dean tells him about the land. Angels may be worshipful, but they are also strategists, and any information could be useful in the future.

“We’re entering where the rich folk live now,” Dean informs him, slightly breathless from the incline. The terrain out of town climbs steeply as the palace looms into view up on the hill. They’ve left Main Street behind them, are now in the small village that lies between the commoners and the palace, where Castiel presumes the Hunters and the Lords live. The houses here are larger, grander, and far more aesthetically pleasing. The hedgerows are neat and trimmed and there are many more motor vehicles.

“Aw, she’s gorgeous,” Dean croons about one such thing, a sleek cherry red car that Castiel knows neither the make or name of. “Man, I love cars. I got my own, an Impala. Dad got her for me when I turned sixteen. Named my horse after her.”

When Castiel turned sixteen his only gift was the honor of receiving his first tattoo, a small Latin prayer just below his ribs. Angels aren’t big on celebrations.

“You named your horse after your car?”

“Yep,” Dean grins. “Pala. She’s a beauty, too. Finest thoroughbred in the country.”

They make steady progress up the winding road that leads to the palace, though Dean complains about a sharp pain in his side halfway up. He clutches at it and moans, “Knew I shoulda taken the damn car this morning.”

Which leads Castiel quite nicely onto something he’s been wondering since he found out who Dean was. “If you're the crown prince then why were you wandering around on foot without a bodyguard?"

A self-deprecating smirk tugs at the corners of Dean's mouth. "I'm not very good at being a prince."

There's something Castiel can relate to. "I’m not very good at being an angel, either."

"Yeah?" Dean casts him an appraising look. "Knew you were a feisty fucker."

Castiel scowls. "I'm not feisty, I just didn't appreciate how I was being told to live my life.”

"Well, hey, Cas, maybe we've got more in common than you think."

This is a mildly unsettling idea that Castiel dismisses quickly. Dean is royalty, he grew up with untold wealth and riches. Castiel can't imagine they have much in common at all.

The road doesn't level out until they finally fall under the palace's shadow. Panting hard from the climb, Castiel tilts his head back to try and see his new home. He swallows hard.

From a distance the palace certainly looked vast and magnificent, who knows how many rooms encased in pale white stone and window after window, protected around the front of the property by a tall wall. But up close the building is intimidating and imposing, cold and unwelcoming even from the outside, and Castiel is already having reservations about accepting Dean's offer.

Perhaps reading the expression on his face, Dean says, "I meant it, y'know. You're free to leave whenever you like. You don't have to do this if you don't wanna. Hell, we don't even know each other. Not like you owe me anything."

For a moment, Castiel considers it. Going back to his alley and taking his chances. He'd be fine, he's sure, but the question is for how long. His powers are fading daily and soon enough he'll be forced to stop maintaining his body in order to conserve them. Then he'd need to find food and water and shelter from inclement weather, all while trying to conceal his identity. Why would he want to suffer all that when Dean is offering him a room and three meals a day?

"I’ll bear that in mind," he says, a compromise, and Dean looks at him carefully before leading them both to the vast iron gates.

There are a couple of sentries on guard either side of the gate, solemn and still, not acknowledging their presence other than to allow them entry. The gates close behind them with a resounding clang.

In front of the main palace doors lies a stunning garden. Flowers in every color bloom in neat rows, the grass is cut impeccably in perfect lines, and a water fountain trickles nearby as they crunch their way up the gravel driveway.

"It's lovely," Castiel whispers, mostly to himself. At the Garrison gardens were seen as frivolous and unnecessary. The only outside space they had was a small bench under a solitary tree, a place meant for seeking revelation.

"Sure," Dean agrees, not doing too good a job at being convincing. He strides up to the doors and only now, as he's jogging to catch up, does Castiel see the prince in him. Dean holds himself straighter as they enter the palace, his head higher and the his spine taut as a bowstring under his navy polo shirt.

"Just follow me," he mutters, as soon as they're inside. “And if you see the King, you gotta bring back the bowing and the ‘sire’s, okay? Lay it on thick.”

“Okay.”

Inside is shady and cool and devoid of people, but despite the plush red carpets underneath his feet and the wood-paneled walls decorated with old paintings, the place has a definite air of misery that seeps right into Castiel's bones. It weighs him down and seems to have the same effect on Dean, who is far less animated now than he had been on the walk.

"Lemme show you around," he suggests, and off they go.

Castiel is definitely going to need a map of this palace if he ever successfully wants to get from A to B. The halls are long and narrow and the rooms are endless and identical. It’s a maze, far too big for one man and his two sons.

On the ground floor there is a drawing room and a living room (what the difference is Castiel will never know), a dining room with a table big enough to seat a small army, as well as an office with several staff and a gym at the back of the building. On the first floor they pass by the east wing, which Dean says is where the King resides and is strictly off-limits, and a movie theatre room and a games room and a well-stocked library.

The second floor is split between Sam's quarters and Dean's, who takes the west wing and whose 'quarters' are big enough to house the entirety of the Garrison if he wanted. There's another living room, a bedroom with the biggest bed Castiel has ever seen, a messy room full of ordinary books and strange, thin squares that Dean calls “records”, a huge bathroom and two guest bedrooms.

"It's like a house within a house," Castiel comments, awestruck and mildly disgusted.

"I know. I don't really use most of this space. I'mma set you up in one of the bedrooms though, if you wanna go pick one and dump your stuff."

Castiel squints at him. "Shouldn't I be with the other servants?"

Rolling his eyes dramatically, Dean says, "How many times, you're not actually a servant. Anyway, I can just say that I want you on hand at all times or something. Whatever, man, if you'd rather sleep downstairs with the others that's up to you."

Castiel thinks of the soft mattresses he just saw and bows his head respectfully before heading to the smaller of the two guest rooms.

The room is lovely, soft furnishings of pale blues and creams, a small desk and dresser and a bed more than big enough for one. The best part though is the view. The arched window isn't large, but from up here on the hill Castiel can see nothing but grass and treetops and then, beyond the forest, the faint glitter of the ocean. The town must lie in the opposite direction, out of sight.

Castiel places his bag on the bed and heads back out to find Dean, who's arguing in the living room with a veritable giant in a hand-knitted sweater.

"It's just one evening, Sammy, you gotta—"

"No, I'm sick of Dad telling me what I've 'gotta do', don't you start."

Sammy. Sam Winchester. The younger prince and Dean's brother. Castiel tries his hardest to melt back into the tapestry behind him but it's too late, the door opening must have caught Dean's attention because he looks over Sam's shoulder at Castiel and sighs.

"Sam, Castiel. Cas, my brother Sam."

Castiel repeats the deep bow he gave to Dean and Sam nods at him politely then says in a very carrying whisper, "Really? Another stray, Dean? Where are you going to put this one, the servants' quarters are full to bursting."

"He's my new manservant." Dean puffs his chest out defensively but Sam just shakes his head in what appears to be fond exasperation.

He turns to Castiel and says, "Sorry. Nice to meet you." He crosses the room and shakes Castiel's hand.

Hoping his palm isn't too clammy, Castiel asks, "Are you also not very good at being a prince?" because surely servants, even pretend ones, should not be greeted like this by royalty.

Dean barks a laugh and Sam looks confused but answers lightly, "Apparently not."

“C’mon, Castiel,” Dean says, still smirking, “let’s go introduce you to everyone else.”

By everyone else Dean means the serving staff who live in the basement, yet another mass of labyrinth-like halls. However here the atmosphere couldn’t be more different. It seems to affect Dean too, who relaxes for the first time since they arrived. It’s noisy down here, bustling, but there are the distant sounds of laughter and, somewhere, faint strains of music.

“This is where you’ll eat meals,” Dean says, leading him into a huge kitchen. There’s a massive oak table that stretches the length of the room and around which several people are sitting. This is also the location of the music; an old radio in the corner is playing what appears to be country and western.

Faced with a sudden bout of nerves as he’s introduced to more humans than he’s ever met in his life, Castiel tugs at his shirt to ensure that it covers all of his tattoos. Any one of them could give him away. But everything goes seamlessly as he meets the maids, Charlie Bradbury, Anna Milton, and Jo Harvelle; the ornery old groundskeeper, Bobby Singer; chief cook Benny Lafitte and his niece and sous-chef, Elizabeth; Missouri Moseley, who tells him cryptically that she’s a nurse ‘amongst other things’; Garth Fitzgerald, manservant to the King; and Ellen Harvelle, the stern but kind-eyed woman who appears to be in charge of everyone else.

Dean is easy around these people, his movements loose and comfortable, but Castiel is more than a little overwhelmed. He almost bolts from the room when Dean takes him aside and asks quietly, “So you gonna be all right if I leave you here for a while? Eat some lunch or something, get to know everyone.”

It’s on the tip of his tongue to remind Dean that he doesn’t require food and he’d actually rather go to his room where it’s quiet, _please_ , but then he realizes how that might go down with everyone else so refrains. When he nods Dean looks pleased, bidding farewells before disappearing.

“Come sit down and tell us your story, kid,” Ellen instructs, “We already ate, but I’m pretty sure we got some soup left over if you want?”

Castiel doesn’t know what soup is, but he nods and takes a seat awkwardly at the table anyway. He asks, “My story?”

“Sure,” Charlie pipes up, “we all have one. What, you think you’re the first stray Dean has brought home?”

That’s twice now he’s been referred to as a stray, like he’s some kind of animal, and Castiel bristles in offense. “I’m not a _stray_ ,” he protests, “I didn’t _have_ to come here, I chose to. Dean is just… giving me a hand.”

The others nod knowingly and a bowl of thick, orange liquid is put in front of him. “Eat,” Ellen says, handing him a spoon.

The soup is thick and hot and warms Castiel from the inside out and all of a sudden he’s _hungry_ , hungry in a way he never has been before, and he scalds his tongue and burns his throat but he doesn’t care, he just wants more. It’s delicious and if all food is like this then Castiel wants to eat and eat forever. Perhaps losing his powers does have some benefits, after all.

Afterwards, when Ellen has cleared his bowl and the others have stopped staring at him in fascinated repulsion, Castiel is approached by Anna. She sits next to him as everyone else wanders off to do whatever duties they have and gives him a smile.

“Sorry if we were a bit forward,” she says softly, resting her elbow on the table. “I think we forget sometimes that it takes a while to adjust.”

A while? Castiel doesn’t think he’ll ever adjust to this place. “Are you one of Dean’s ‘strays’ too?”

“Yep, and I’ve been here longer than most,” she confides. “I ran away from home the second I turned eighteen, a good ten years ago now. I was living in the forest until one night I accidentally stumbled into a vampire nest. Of course, I was armed and had been protecting myself for a long time so I’d taken three of those suckers out before Dean and his Hunters even arrived. I decided to let them handle the rest.” She grins again and it’s infectious. “Dean was just a boy, fourteen if a day and still in training, but he insisted I become a Hunter myself. I said no; just because I _can_ fight doesn’t mean I want to spend the rest of my life doing it, you know? But I was also fed up of living alone in the damn woods, so I asked if he knew of anyone I could stay with. Here I am.”

“And you like living here?”

She nods, red hair tumbling over her shoulder. “Y’know, Dean renovated this entire basement to make our rooms more comfortable a couple of years ago, and we don’t have to do anything we don’t want to. We work because it keeps us busy and personally, I won’t accept a wage for doing nothing. But Dean is a very kind man—a prince unlike any other.”

Castiel is beginning to gather that. He thanks Anna for her candidness and wonders if he’s just made his first--second?-- friend. He can’t be sure as he’s never had friends before, but the knot of unease in his stomach loosens in Anna’s presence and he begins to feel like he could actually fit in here after all, an angel in this palace of humans.

 


	2. part two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah I'm sorry I haven't updated this in so long!! I'm currently working on my pinefest fic, a commission and this, so things have been hectic

 

 

Cas squeezes his heels into Grace’s sides, urging her on faster. She canters through the undergrowth, crushing spring flowers and sticks under her hooves as she navigates the trees with ease. Dean is still ahead, just by a little, his laugh floating back in the breeze. It's unfair because Pala has been tearing through this forest since she was just a foal. Grace is just as new to these boyish races as Castiel is.

Still, he smiles and chases after Dean, ducking low branches that threaten to catch him in the eye, until through the thinning trees the lake becomes visible, shimmering silver under the afternoon sun. It's their finish line and seeing it gives Castiel a new momentum. He leans down and mutters an encouragement to Grace, who pushes on dutifully and catches up with Dean until they're neck and neck. Dean catches his eye and grins wide.

“Last one in’s gotta make the other dinner,” he goads, which is ridiculous because why on _earth_ would he voluntarily want to eat Castiel’s cooking? Benny has actually threatened to remove Castiel’s fingers if he goes too near the stove, and that was just after he'd tried to make a sandwich.

“You’ve finally gone insane,” Castiel blinks, which makes Dean laugh--and this is his downfall. A brief slip of concentration and Castiel is able to inch ahead, enough that Pala instinctively slows down to avoid a collision and Dean yells out a “Hey!” as Castiel breaks through the trees and leaps down from Grace’s back, stripping off his clothes and running, bare as the day he was born, to the lake edge.

The shock of cold water snatches the breath from his lungs. Castiel sinks like a stone until his toes touch the sandy bottom ten feet down, then he propels himself back up to the surface, gasping and grinning. There’s a huge “whoop!” and a splash next to him that signals Dean has finally caught up, and then they’re both shoving and splashing at each other in the water.

“Now you have to cook me dinner,” Castiel comments a few minutes later, when they’re both floating on their backs with their eyes closed against the blazing sun.

“Damn, guess I do.”

It will be pleasant, sharing a meal with Dean. Although he’s often in the kitchen throughout the day, picking at Benny’s cooking and frequently caught with his head thrown back in laughter over lunch, Dean’s breakfasts and dinners are presided over by King John in the dining hall. They're formal and mandatory and Castiel knows for a fact that Dean hates them because he goes quiet just before them, and comes back out of the room looking sour-faced and exhausted.

It surprised him, actually, how quickly Castiel picked up on Dean's moods. In the six months since he moved into the palace they’ve become rather close, which is as nice as it is unexpected. The other staff were right about him; he’s certainly unique as far as royalty goes--maybe even as far as humans go. Dean is kind and gentle and he’s great with Elizabeth’s daughter Sophie, who’s one year old and cries _a lot_. Angel offspring are much quieter than their human counterparts and can be soothed with just a touch, whereas Elizabeth takes many hours of cuddling, shushing, feeding and rocking to finally settle down.

“Hey,” Dean says, and warm fingers brush Castiel’s side under the water, little sparks of electricity. “I haven’t seen this one before.”

The small mountain range tattoo sits on Castiel’s ribs, a few inches below his armpit. It’s actually his favorite, the only one that he was allowed to choose himself. At the time the sentiment behind it was mostly wistful; now it has become a symbol of how untethered he is, how easily he could visit far off lands if he chose to. _Freedom_.

Dean’s body is not unmarked either. He has a pentagram tattoo on his chest right over his heart, something that John forced both of his sons to get to protect them from angelic evil. The power behind it is thin at best, a tenuous strand of magic no more than a hair’s breadth wide, probably able to break at the slightest provocation. One day Castiel will explain to Dean some of his own runes and sigils that he could add to it to build up its strength and make it worthwhile. Although the irony behind that is almost laughable.

“Hey,” Dean says again, a small frown caught between his brows, “you with me?”

“Sorry.” A fish flutters past Castiel’s foot, giving his toe a curious nip. It makes him jump and involuntarily kick his leg out, which just so happens to send a huge wave of water over himself and Dean.

“Oh, that is fucking _it_.”

The next thing Castiel knows, he's being dunked under the surface. Laughter bubbles out of his mouth--Dean may have been the one to teach Castiel to swim in this lake, but he's long since been left equal parts mad and embarrassed by how quickly Castiel overtook him in both ability and stamina. Therefore if Dean is expecting to win this battle, he's mistaken.

Despite this he fights valiantly, taking every opportunity to push Castiel away and fling slimy pondweed at him. It's not until Castiel advances menacingly with a rather large crab snapping it's pincers in Dean's direction that he finally surrenders. Castiel graciously allows him one last shove anyway.

“You're the worst,” Dean huffs, shaking his head and spraying water droplets everywhere.

“Thank you.”

They take turns drying off with a scratchy blanket Dean had tucked into Pala’s saddle. Castiel slips his clothes back on hurriedly, feeling a self-consciousness now that they're out of the water that he doesn't usually feel regarding his own body. He carefully doesn't look over at Dean doing the same, even though his eyes seem to instinctively pull that way.

Pala and Grace whinny happily from their spot near the lake, nuzzling their noses together. Castiel grabs a couple of apples out of Dean's bag and heads over, letting them chomp on the fruit straight out of his hand. He rubs both of them behind the ears; Grace’s speckled white and grey coat is a stark comparison to Pala’s sleek black, but they're an attractive pair.

Dean’s watching him when Castiel turns around, an easy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Hey, you want a sandwich?”

They eat under the shade of a huge tree because Dean pouts that he’ll freckle if left in the sun any longer, and it's nice. It’s not often they get to have a day off like this; Dean’s duties at the palace seem to be never-ending. He rarely complains, but it seems to Castiel like King John is rather fond of dumping all of the Kingdom’s problems on Dean’s shoulders.

“So, Sam’s birthday is coming up,” Dean reminds him, when their stomachs are full and they're lying back on the blanket. Castiel is watching the sun filter through the branches on the tree and trying not to fall asleep, so the statement catches him off guard.

“It is?”

“Yeah, May 2nd. It's his eighteenth this year, so I thought I'd throw the kid a surprise party. He deserves it, I hardly see him lately and when I do he looks fuckin’ miserable. I think he's avoiding Dad. They argue a lot.”

Castiel hums thoughtfully. “What does His Highness have to say about this party?”

“My father thinks all forms of fun are the devil, so he can go to hell,” scoffs Dean.

“Such treasonous words will get you in trouble.”

Sighing, Dean rolls over onto his front and hides his face on his forearm. The back of his neck is already a little reddened from the sun. Castiel will have to go to Missouri and ask for some aloe when they return.

“I know, I know.” His voice is muffled but Castiel can still hear the sudden tiredness in it. “I just wanna do something nice for Sam, is that a crime?”

Castiel smiles, even though Dean can't see. “Of course not.”

 

+

 

The library quickly becomes one of Castiel’s favorite places in the palace. It’s not huge but it’s big enough to have nooks and corners he can tuck himself away in. One of these, squeezed between the historical fiction and the biography shelves, he’s filled with pillows and blankets. Dean calls it his “nest” and makes rude jokes about feathers and preening that Castiel scowls at.

It’s where he likes to spend his evenings while Dean is having dinner with the King and giving John his daily briefing, so when he walks into the library at eight o’clock one Friday, the last thing he expects to see is Prince Sam sitting at the table, head bent as he pores over a book. It’s a hefty thing, one of the old dusty tomes that no one ever really touches. He’s muttering softly in something that sounds like Latin.

“Hello, your Highness,” Castiel says and Sam jumps, slamming the book shut. It’s an odd reaction to have. Castiel is a servant, he’s not here to tell Sam off for skipping dinner.

“Cas, hey, man. Sorry, you startled me.”

“I apologize. What are you reading?”

Sam glances down at the book and shrugs. “Oh, just some stuff for my studies. It’s pretty dull. It was sending me to sleep.”

Castiel comes forward far enough to catch sight of the cover. A spike of panic flares through him--it's got to be a coincidence, that Sam is reading a book with a heavy focus on old magic, the kind King John considers to be dark and dangerous because it’s often associated with angels. It's got to be. There's no way he knows; Castiel is so careful, his tattoos are always hidden.

“I'd better get to dinner,” Sam says, “Before my dad sends out a search party.”

He claps Castiel on the shoulder as he passes, the book tucked under his other arm. If he suspected Castiel of having magical powers, he wouldn't be treating him just the same as he always has. Castiel would be in the dungeon, facing the King’s wrath. And seeing as he isn't, Castiel can only assume that Sam was telling the truth and the book is indeed for his studies. Relief washes over him, and he has to grab onto the back of a chair to steady himself for a moment.

Out of morbid curiosity, he crosses over into the section of the library that the book came from. Castiel knows that John Winchester only keeps these old tomes as another line of defense. Dean has joked that there might as well be a sign hung over the shelves reading ‘What To Do When Angels Invade’ and told Castiel that as a child he was tutored with these books, studying angel weaknesses and strengths and getting pop quizzes on how banishing sigils work.

It made Castiel angry, until he remembered the horror stories he was told about humans.

It’s not until much later that night, when Castiel is curled up at the end of the couch in Dean’s living quarters--and honestly, this couch with its deep, plush cushions and soft fabric is reason alone to have left the Garrison--that Dean trudges in looking more exhausted than ever. There are dark shadows ringing his eyes and his hair is mussed like he’s been running a hand through it.

“What’s wrong?” Castiel asks, although he has suspicions. Unless Dean’s been eating for a solid three and a half hours (and while that wouldn’t altogether surprise Castiel, it does seem unlikely), then the King has been grilling his sons all evening.

“Ugh, everything,” Dean grumbles, collapsing onto the couch with a _whumph_. He tips his head back and closes his eyes. “Dad wants to start recruiting Hunters from the age of thirteen.”

Is that it? At the Garrison, angels start training in prayer and sorcery from the minute they’re old enough to walk and talk. “And?”

“‘And’?” Dean repeats, incredulous. “Can’t you see how wrong that is? He wants these kids to be killers before they’ve even learned how to shave.”

“You treat childhood so differently than we do,” Castiel tries to explain. “To you, it is something precious, something to be preserved and nurtured. To us, it’s the best time to teach the harnessing of powers and how to be respectful in worship.”

Dean blinks at him. “That’s fucked up, Cas.”

Castiel shrugs. “I didn’t say it wasn’t.”

With a groan, Dean drops his head into his hands. “I’m gonna fight him on it. There’s a boy, Ben--his mom and I were sweet on each other a long time ago--who’ll be turning thirteen next month. I’ll be damned if I’m letting the King turn him into a soldier. Our army is plentiful and it’s not as if we’re heading for war.”

This is a side of Dean that Castiel particularly admires. He so wholeheartedly fights for what is good, even if it means struggling with his father.

“And on top of all that,” Dean goes on, “I still haven’t figured out what to do for Sam’s birthday. Everything I think of is shit and I can’t ask him without him getting suspicious.”

“I could help?”

Dean looks over at him tiredly. “Yeah? Actually, yeah. You could find out what kind of party he wants because I got no clue.”

That does not sound like an easy task, by any means. But if it would help Dean, then it’s something Castiel will try his best at. How difficult can it be, to discover Sam’s interests?

“I’ll do it.”

With a sigh of relief, Dean thumps him gently on the thigh. “Thanks, Cas. You’re a lifesaver. I gotta cook you that dinner I owe you, say thanks properly.” He pushes himself to his feet, looking slumped and rumpled despite his formal dinner jacket tailored with sharp lines and folds. In the next second, that jacket is on the floor. Dean’s shiny leather shoes follow, then his shirtsleeves get rolled up and two buttons loosened at the neck.

Once this transformation is complete, Dean sits back down and asks, “So, what are we watchin’?”

Castiel presses play on Netflix. Television is another great pleasure of human life and he tries to indulge in it whenever he can. “A documentary on the ecosystem of the northeastern shores of the Kingdom. Now shush, we’re missing it.”

Dean smiles, settling further back into the cushions. “Ah, good, I needed something to help me get to sleep.”

When Castiel glances over just a couple of minutes later, Dean’s eyes are indeed closed again although he doesn’t look relaxed enough to be fully asleep. The weariness is plain on his face and Castiel aches to take that pain away. No one should ever suffer unjustly, especially Dean. In that moment, Castiel is almost consumed by a surge of anger against King John. How dare he, one man, decide what is good for other people. On one level, Castiel understands that this is how leadership works, but on another… He’s seen the poverty that goes on behind closed doors in the town. He witnesses Dean and Sam slip bills into the hands of people who have nothing, having to do so covertly so that it doesn’t get back to the King that his sons are giving away the money of the kingdom. He sees the weight on Dean’s shoulders, as the eldest son and heir, the commands given to him that make him visibly uncomfortable. He hears the hatred John harbors for anything unfamiliar, anything _unknown_ , on a daily basis--and that includes prejudices against his own kind.

He escaped life at the Garrison because it was oppressing and suffocating; they tried to take away his free will and force him into the hivemind shared by his siblings. And that didn’t work for him, broken from birth. Always too curious, too enchanted by the things he would catch glimpses of outside--animals, plants, knowing there were far off lands unexplored. But that doesn’t mean that angels are _monsters_. It’s simply a different way of life. They fear humans just as humans fear them, and now Castiel is familiar with both species he knows there must have been some form of miscommunication somewhere, years or decades or maybe centuries ago. For the mistrust and hatred to have brewed this severely, to reach the point where Castiel must keep his true identity a secret for fear of being hanged in the square, or chased out by a mob of pitchforks and jeers, something must have gone wrong.

Perhaps one day, when Dean has taken the throne, things can be different. Clearly Dean doesn’t share his father’s opinions, but it is the Kingdom of Winchester at large who must be convinced. Maybe, if Castiel were given the opportunity to show them, to talk to the townspeople…

But that day is a long way off yet. And in the meantime, Castiel must keep quiet. He must keep up the pretense of being Dean’s servant, if only to be there for Dean to lean on.

 

+

 

So Castiel is tasked with finding out what _kind_ of party Sam would like, a daunting challenge when faced with a surly teenager and the knowledge that he must be subtle about it. Subtlety is one of Castiel's strong suits when it comes to keeping his true identity hidden, but trying to come up with excuses to talk to Sam about his hobbies is not.

“It's impossible,” Castiel bemoans to Bobby toward the middle of April, sitting on the wooden swing that hangs from a large beech tree. A few yards away, Bobby is diligently scooping algae out of the water fountain. It's odd, actually, but Castiel gets on well with Bobby. He's cantankerous and old and complains constantly, but his eyes are soft and his beard twitches when he smiles and he lets Castiel help him tend to the gardens.

“Nothin’s impossible,” he grunts, emptying the contents of his net into a bucket with a wet slap.

“This is. All I've learnt about Sam is that he likes reading, doesn’t like getting caught in the rain, and gets gassy when he eats spicy food.”

Bobby arches an eyebrow. “Sam told you that?”

“No, Dean,” Castiel admits miserably. “He seemed to think it was important.”

“All right, so you gotta improvise,” Bobby shrugs. He stops swirling his net through the water and takes off his cap, wiping his forehead with the back of a grubby hand.

Castiel kicks his feet into the dirt. How's he supposed to know what human celebrations should be like? He’s done some googling, but angels don't celebrate birthdays in the same way at all. They get a tattoo to signify another successful year and a gift from their family--usually a book or clothing, something useful--and that's it. The only time they ever indulge in frivolity is to mark Creation Day, when lessons and tasks are cancelled and they hold prayer for most of the day. Sometimes there’s dancing, or even singing if Castiel is feeling especially giddy.

It was one of the few times he would feel fond of his family, on Creation Day. Seeing everyone smiling and happy was nice.

He shakes his head. Those days are far behind him now, ripped away from him by the very people he used to care for.

Castiel takes a deep breath. “A ball?” he asks Bobby.

Bobby huffs. “Too formal.”

“A banquet?”

“Too damn boring.”

“A masked ball? That would be less formal.”

Just as it looks as though Bobby’s considering this one, he makes a face and says, “Eh.”

Castiel scowls. “ _Eh_? What does that even mean?”

“Means he ain't Cinderella, ya fool. He hates all that prim ‘n’ proper shit.”

“Fine,” Castiel snaps, patience somewhere in the bottom of Bobby’s bucket. “People can turn up wearing whatever they like and there'll be no rules and the King will behead me if Dean doesn't throw me out first and--”

“Hold your fuckin’ horses,” Bobby grunts, “you might be onto somethin’ there.”

“What?”

“Make it a costume party. Y’know. Dressing up.”

Dressing up? Castiel squints at Bobby. He just said Sam didn't like anything proper and now he's suggesting exactly that?

His confusion must be plain on his face because Bobby rolls his eyes and elaborates, “You pick a character, dress up as them? Jeez, son, what kinda backward ass hole d’you grow up in?”

It's not as if dressing to look like somebody else is a completely foreign concept to him; after all, he does it nearly every day--wearing a servant’s tunic, trying to pass as a human. But doing it for fun?

“Could…” He thinks on it a little more. “Could the characters be people from Sam’s favorite books?”

“Can be whatever you want ‘em to be. Now quit your whinin’ and come over here and gimme a hand.”

Castiel wrinkles his nose as he examines the bucket of green slop. “A hand with what?”

“Puttin’ this on the flowerbeds. Algae’s a good fertilizer, it’s all nitrogen and potassium and breaks down damn fast. The beds need it after the winter we’ve had.”

Later, Castiel will write that down in his gardening journal. Right now he carries the bucket across the lawn and asks, “Who would you dress up as? For Sam’s party, I mean.”

Bobby snorts. “I dunno. Most of my books are in Ancient Greek.”

Castiel has a brief mental image of Bobby in a toga and has to stifle a laugh. He drops the bucket on the grass at the edge of the flowerbeds and drops to his knees beside it so that Bobby won’t see what is undoubtedly an incriminating look on his face.

He watches Bobby scoop some of the algae out with his bare hands and lay it around the stems of some tulips. Castiel rolls up his shirtsleeves to his elbows and takes a deep breath before shoving his hand in the bucket. The algae is cold and slimy between his fingers but it’s oddly satisfying to pat it down around the plants. He likes helping to care for things; he’s never really had that before.

They’ve been quietly working for a good five minutes when Bobby says, “Course, you gotta get Sam a costume to change into once he knows what the party is.”

As Dean would say, _fuck it all to hell_.

“How am I supposed to know who Sam’s favorite character is?”

“Yeah, I’m done with my party planning advice for the whole damn year,” Bobby huffs, so they finish fertilizing the plants in silence. It’s comfortable, though, and when they finish Castiel gets a hearty shoulder-clap and a gruff, “Good work, son. We’ll make a gardener of you yet.”

It’s not until Castiel is on his feet and treading across the lawn that Bobby calls after him, “By the way, them’s some nice tattoos you got there,” and Castiel feels like his world has cracked in two.

 

 

“Cas, chill out.”

Dean’s calm, _too_ calm, instruction does little to help. “No, you don’t understand. He _knew_ , Dean. I could tell by the look in his eyes.”

“What did you say back?”

Castiel sits miserably on the coffee table, facing Dean on the couch. “I said ‘thank you’ and came straight here.”

“That explains that, I guess,” Dean sighs, gesturing at Castiel’s dirty and vaguely green hands. He leans forward on his elbows. “I don’t think you have to worry about Bobby. You should talk to him though.”

Is he mad? “Are you mad?” Castiel asks him.

“Look, Cas, the opinions of my father are not necessarily the opinions of everyone else.” He casts his eyes down, fiddling with a loose thread in his jacket. “I was four when my mom died. Sam was just a baby. An angel came into the palace and murdered her for no reason other than--than getting a kick out of it, I guess. The fucking xenophobia has been going on for generations. So scared of the unknown, y’know? And that just kinda cemented it for my dad, and here we are. More paranoid and more narrow-minded than ever.”

Castiel already knew this, but from sources other than Dean. Anna told him that Queen Mary had been killed, Charlie that it was an angel. Hearing it from Dean is almost humbling, and he has to resist the urge to lay his hand on Dean’s arm.

He still finds it difficult to believe that an angel killed Mary, because he’s sure it’s something that would have been mentioned at the Garrison. It must have been an angel gone rogue, for them to have been so callous and unjust, and Zachariah and Uriel would never have let that go unpunished. Unless they had something to do with it, which… which isn’t something Castiel wants to think about.

“Anyway, Bobby kept tellin’ Dad that there were alternatives or something, and he’s voted against every single anti-angel law Dad’s passed since.”

Castiel frowns. “Bobby’s on the Council?”

“Yeah, he’s one of Dad’s advisors.” Dean snorts. “Not that Dad ever listens. You should just talk to him, okay? Even if he does know, I think he’d be on our side.”

_Our_ side. That momentarily floors Castiel. That Dean would actively stand against his father like this, even if the King is unaware.

“Why don’t you hate me?” he asks, genuinely bemused. “If it was an angel that killed your mother, you should loathe me.”

Dean laughs, although it’s bitter and humorless. “I’m not my father.” His expression softens. “And you’re pretty damn hard to hate, Cas.”

Inexplicably, Castiel feels warm for the rest of the day after that.

 

+

 

“Have you seen Prince Sam?” Castiel asks the kitchen at large the following lunchtime. What with the panic that came after Bobby mentioned his tattoos the previous day, Castiel had forgotten about needing to establish Sam’s favorite literary character until this morning. Dean was useless, admitting that he usually tunes Sam’s babble out and doesn’t agree with many of his book opinions anyway, although he did approve of the costume party idea. So here he is, feeling a bit like he’s at square one all over again.

“He’s gone into town,” Elizabeth informs him, elbowing Jo who appears to be trying to steal some of the sweet-smelling sponge that’s just been taken out of the oven.

“Something about needing to visit the apothecary,” Charlie pipes up, “I told him Missouri probably has anything he needs but he got all stammery and said he’d rather go into town. I bet it’s a _man_ problem, y’know?”

Castiel doesn’t know, but to all intents and purposes he is a man so he nods sagely. Charlie and Jo giggle a bit and start whispering, which is possibly a bad thing, so Castiel thanks them and makes a hasty retreat.

It’s one of the first rainy days they’ve had in a while so he slips into the old tan raincoat he’d purchased in the market, the one that Dean rolls his eyes at every time he sees it, and walks quickly into town. Part of him wishes he’d taken Grace, but she doesn’t seem to like being around all the cars and people very much so he tries not to subject her to it if he doesn’t have to. Besides, he doesn’t mind a bit of rain. Rain helps the plants grow and brings life to the earth.

The inclement weather has driven most people away from town but it’s still busy enough that he realizes finding Sam might be a little trickier than he thought. The apothecary, smelling of herbs and spices and peculiar ointments, is empty but for an elderly woman gossiping with the store owner. He walks down Main Street for a little bit--stops to buy some stain remover from the general store since Ellen has been complaining that she can’t get the green out of his cuffs--and realizes that he’s reached his old alley without thinking about it.

It’s just the same. The rain doesn’t bring out the rotten food stench as strongly as the sun used to but it’s still there, thanks to the ever-present restaurant trash bags. Which means the rats likely are too. Castiel thinks briefly of the cat who used to visit him sometimes and hopes she’s okay. It’s a shame Dean’s allergic, it’d be nice to have a cat companion. Pets were strictly banned at the Garrison. Maybe he could offer to cure Dean of his allergies? It might be worth the expenditure of his remaining powers.

There are a couple of shady-looking figures at the far end of the alley, which also doesn’t surprise Castiel. It never was an uncommon sight. However it takes a second for his brain to register that one of those figures, the one who’s a head taller than the other, is Sam. That does surprise him.

If they weren’t so familiar with each other, Castiel isn’t sure he’d have recognized him. Sam’s got a dark jacket on with a large hood and he’s definitely acting like he doesn’t want to be noticed. Unfortunately for Sam, Castiel’s the curious type.

The two men seem to be talking in hushed tones, heads bent towards each other. Castiel doesn’t recognize the second; he’s older, with thinning brown hair and a sallow, long face. When he grins it’s lecherous and sends a shudder up Castiel’s spine. He almost wants to interrupt and read this stranger’s mind, unveil his intentions, but he’s been spying too long now for him to reveal himself. Castiel isn’t as close with Sam as he is with Dean, and Sam might not be as forgiving when he realizes Castiel was watching him. Especially if this is a private matter, which it seems to be.

So he walks away, despite his instincts telling him to stay, and begins the long trudge back up to the palace alone and no more better off than he was when he left.

 

 

Apparently avoiding people is an impossible task, even in a palace as large as this, so Castiel sighs but doesn’t try and run when Bobby corners him in the library just a few hours after Castiel has returned and dried off.

“Good evening, Mr Singer--” he tries, before Bobby snorts and cuts him off.

“Can it with that crap, angel.”

There it is. Castiel should probably expect his execution any day now. Which is a shame, because he doesn’t want to leave.

“Please don’t tell the King,” he asks quietly. “Dean said that you’re more understanding, I can just pack my things and go.”

Bobby sighs and gestures for Castiel to sit at the table before taking the chair opposite him. “If I was gonna make you leave I’d’a done it six months ago.”

Castiel blinks. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve known the whole time, y’idjit. Name like _Castiel_ ain’t exactly common ‘round these parts. I may spend my days in the damn garden, but I know a lot of shit. I got three degrees. Betcha didn’t know that.”

Everything Castiel thought he knew about Bobby is knocked a little off-kilter. He never questioned that he was a very clever man, but this is… he doesn’t quite know what to say.

“Thank you?” Castiel’s a little unsure, but that seems a good place to start. “For not turning me in, I mean.”

“You’re welcome.” Bobby leans back in his chair. It creaks. He drums his fingers on the table. “So, how much power you got left? I assume you’ve been thrown out and cut off from the Host?”

Castiel swallows. “Yes. I, I don’t know how much power I have. Not much. It’s difficult sometimes not to automatically use it to maintain my body.”

“You miss it?”

“No.” Castiel doesn’t even have to think about it. There is nothing about his old life that he misses, not when his new life is so rich in friends and joy and freedom. “It was difficult at first, but being forced to leave the Garrison was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Or maybe it was meeting Dean that was the best thing that ever happened to him. Both seem equally crucial in making Castiel as happy as he is now.

“Good,” Bobby says, pushing to his feet. It seems their chat is over. He nods at Castiel, his beard twitching, and leaves.

Castiel releases a breath, and realizes that perhaps he has more friends than he thought.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also on [tumblr](http://casfallsinlove.tumblr.com) :)


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